


The Way to Ithaca

by isamariposa



Series: Keepsakes from HMS Clio [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Blood and Injury, Everyone Has Issues, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Intimacy, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, unresolved implied Crozier/Fitzjames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isamariposa/pseuds/isamariposa
Summary: A fix-it to Castor and Pollux.A whaling ship rescues what's left of the expedition. James Fitzjames and Henry Le Vesconte have some bridges to mend, and much to build together.Ch 5/5: A very fine speech.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Henry T. D. Le Vesconte
Series: Keepsakes from HMS Clio [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712725
Comments: 35
Kudos: 62





	1. The Whaling Ship

**Author's Note:**

> You must have read [Castor and Pollux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015158/) for some of this fic to make sense! It's set in the same verse with the same past, but it diverges from the second fragment of [Chapter 6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23015158/chapters/55885300) onwards (so Henry has befriended Bridgens, and James and Henry aren't on the best of terms and have had some ugly sex). 
> 
> The fic is set sometime after Hickey's group breaks away but before James dies in canon.
> 
> Should be 4 or 5 chapters long. 
> 
> Ithaca is where Ulysses was trying to go (his home) in The Odyssey.

* * *

At first, it seems to be but a cloud. A dark cloud in the horizon, the kind that comes with storms. But a day passes, and two, and the cloud does not move despite the wind. The officers take turns at finding higher terrain and using a spyglass to peer at the horizon. James spots it in the end: first, the sea, its pale blue a distant promise, and a whaling ship anchored in a bay, the smoke from its machinery raising gaily in the wind. 

It is, alas, dozens of miles away, perhaps over a hundred. 

The hour is too dire, and salvation too urgent for disagreement; nevertheless, disagreements arise. Crozier would like to haul the small boats down to the sea, no matter the distance: this ensures they have a way forward should the ship be no longer there when they reach it. James would prefer walking unhindered and as quickly as possible towards the ship before it raises its anchors. There is also the matter of the ill, who have to be transported one way or the other, and not be left behind. James suggests they break into two groups, the fastest and fittest, who should reach the whaling ship in no time and persuade it to wait for the second group, the slowest and the ill. But they've already lost half the group to Hickey under similar rhetoric, and Crozier is loath to separate further or to leave anyone behind. 

While they argue, Henry climbs to higher terrain with Hartnell to build a large fire, the largest fire the Arctic has ever seen. There isn't much to spare to burn, but together they manage to rouse the flames. It might alert Hickey's men, but this is a risk they may afford: they are more and better armed. Through the spyglass, however, the ship makes no signal to have seen the fire. 

James joins them up the hill some time later, to send Hartnell away. He sits next to Henry by the fire, staring at it in silence for a long moment. 

"We might have to make a run for it," he says at last.

Henry scoffs incredulously. "I didn't think you had mutiny in you."

"Is it mutiny if we are doing it to save him? Him and all the others?"

"It absolutely is still mutiny. But I will do it, if you ask me to."

"I know you will," James says. "It does not make me proud."

It does not make Henry proud either, but for entirely different reasons. There is little he would not do if James asked it. This isn't a virtue. Henry stares at the flames raising up to the skies, the burned cloth and tarp producing a dark smoke - the whaling ship has got to have noticed that. Is he to be content with these crumbs of James after weeks of frost? Henry would like to tell himself he has more pride than that. But alas, being so close to him is too powerful a force, more powerful than any remnant of pride left in him.

"Has your foot healed enough?" James asks.

It has been hurting a lot more than it used to, for some reason. The abominable pain lessened a day or two after he lost them, but the eerie sensation of still having toes took longer to pass. The pain has returned of late. Likely because of the long march.

Nevertheless, he says, "Enough to walk, yes." He stares in the direction of the ship, estimating the distance. "A three-day walk, perhaps four?"

"Yes," James says. "Who else is fit enough?"

"I've no idea. Weekes? Little, perhaps. But that will be a harder sell for him."

"Not Little. He has to stay. I cannot leave Crozier with only Jopson, who is barely an officer to begin with."

"Leave Crozier?" Henry repeats, glancing at James with some surprise. "Are you coming as well?"

"Of course I'm coming as well, Henry. You don't think I'd send you on a mutinous errand without me?" He smirks. "We are going together or not at all."

The smirk reminds Henry of happier days, so painfully that he has to glance away. He'd give anything to go back to the way they were then. Anything. He blinks. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, gruffly. "He'll be disappointed to find you gone."

"I know that. I am ready for that eventuality." James puts a hand on Henry's shoulder, his grip strong, warm. "Come on, Dundy. One last run for it. We either save everyone or die in the attempt."

Henry chuckles to mask how much he wants to lean against James. "Once upon a time I'd have jumped on that perspective with my eyes closed." 

"And now?"

_Now? I'm hesitant to even touch you,_ Henry thinks. But he does not say it. He sighs, then gives in: very slowly, slow enough that James can move away if he wants to, he leans into him, resting the sides of their heads together for the briefest of moments. It makes his heart jump when James reciprocates the gesture, pressing back against him. His breath is warm on Henry's cheek. That he is starved for this closeness between them is nothing new, but the magnitude of the hunger always leaves him bewildered. He pulls away, and can't help noticing James does not let go of his shoulder - keeping him close.

"Now... Now we have a wild creature on the prowl," Henry ends up answering, because he has to say something.

"Hasn't stopped us before, now, has it," James quips, and Henry manages a laugh at the sweet but flawed memory of their poor old cheetah. "For all we know our friendly foe is now snacking on Hickey and his jolly crew of outlaws."

"I'm still hurt that Des Voeux joined him."

"And Hodgson."

"I'd rather have Hodgson than Weekes for your little venture." Henry shakes his head. "But we'll make due."

"Is that a yes I hear, then?"

"Yes, James. It's a yes," he says, a little offhanded, as if it did not mean the world to him, as if it did not mean _everything_.

James laughs with evident delight. "You're a capital fellow, Dundy, have I told you that?"

"Not recently," he says, perhaps more bitterly than he intended. He feels James tensing next to him.

"Oi," he says. When Henry doesn't meet his gaze, James grabs him by the face, forcing him to look at him. He seems confused, but also vaguely guilty. "Surely you cannot think, you can't imagine...?"

Henry does not let him finish. He jerks his head away and stands. "We'd better not quarrel if we are to journey three long days together," he says, dryly.

"It's a _quarrel_ now? What are you on about, Henry? Are you with me or not?"

"I am with you. I've always been." Not long ago he'd have left it at that. But Henry is exhausted, hungry, and tired of hurting, so he adds, "But I dare not ask you the same question because I dread your answer."

James stands as well, gesticulating theatrically. "Oh, for God's sake! What do you imagine my answer would be?"

"Quite frankly, James, I'd rather not know just now. Forget this conversation."

"You cannot start something and then tell me to forg-" James says, but Henry cuts him off.

"Look. Let's just make it to that ship. Two cans of food each, one half for each day. Water. One weapon. No more. I'll go find Weekes now."

He turns away, but James grabs him by the arm to stop him. "I am not done talking to you."

"But I am. James. I _am_ done," Henry says, and jerks his arm free. "I just want all this to be over."

"What do you mean by that? Henry!"

Henry keeps walking down the hill, away from him. He expected it to hurt more, to make himself ignore James like this, ignore him even as he calls his name. He only feels muted relief - an ugly, vaguely primal vindication. Good God, what is he doing? They are dying on this barren land, bleeding to death in the hungriest agony, and he's still concerned about petty games with James? He turns around, regretting it already. Up the hill, James is still looking at him, expectant; anguished, even. Henry bites his lip when their gazes meet. He gives in, after a second or two, and smiles. James smiles back at once, a little uncertain, but evidently appeased with this oblique mark of affection. 

Perhaps James is not the only one handing out crumbs.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


They leave the sleeping camp with far more ease than Henry imagined. James is, after all, the second Captain. Whatever doubts the lone sentry may have are easily brushed away with James's commanding stride. Henry and Weekes are, evidently, carrying out an errand with him, and they are let through without question. 

The long walk begins then. Fast at first, to put a necessary distance between them and the camp. They then fall into a more natural pace, still quick, but not neck-breaking - steady, purposeful. It's amazing how much faster one may walk when unbothered by hauling or by unnecessary weight. For the first time Henry wonders about the faults of Crozier's plan and the merits of Hickey's desertion. Altruism versus self-preservation. Honour that condemns them all to death, or callous selfishness to survive. In a way, _they_ aren't much different from Hickey, are they? Their purpose is nobler, perhaps, but treason is treason no matter the outcome. Henry was clear about it when he spoke to Weekes. He could have easily used the natural loyalty the carpenter felt for James and for him, his own officers, rather than for Crozier whom he knows less, but tricking a man into mutiny was too despicable an action to consider. That Weekes agreed at once was, however, a relief for his vanity.

A half can of food brings little sustenance, but the hunger feels less hopeless now that they have a tangible goal to follow. In the far distance, the ship is still anchored in the bay, its column of smoke a tall flag heralding salvation. Behind them, barely visible now, lies the camp and the remnants of Henry's fire up in the hill. Their absence must have been noticed by now. Will Crozier play along, Henry wonders, and pretend that this was done on his orders, or will he disavow them? Disavow James? Perhaps he is using the spyglass, watching them. Moved by a juvenile impulse, Henry puts a hand on James's shoulder and gives him a pat. He hopes Crozier sees that.

James has been walking the slowest out of the three, perhaps a little stiffly - slower than him, even with his increasingly painful foot. Henry doesn't like it one bit, and he also dislikes the way James's eyes look more sunken with every mile they cover.

"You alright?" he asks. It occurs to him this was a question for when they started planning the walk, not for now.

"I have to be," James answers, too dryly for it to mean anything.

Night is a non-existent concept at this time of the year, but twilight does occur for a few hours. They use those to sleep. No one keeps guard: there isn't enough time, and if the beast comes along little can be done to it with their current weapons. If Hickey's men come along... well, Henry looks forward to that eventuality. The three of them huddle together side by side, the blankets offering little protection for the night chill. When he awakens, he finds that James slid even closer to him in his sleep, likely searching for warmth, and he's left a possessive arm around Henry's waist. 

He stares and stares at this arm around him.

How many times has he woken up like this in the past, with James's arm around him? He's always been a demanding lover, both in bed and out of it. This subtle mark of affection is one Henry has always cherished, and that he's missed these past three years. He sighs, trying to calm down, knowing this is not the time to let himself be moved by sentiment. And yet he reaches for James's hand, the hand he's closed so tightly into a fist, and wraps his own around it. He then lifts it to his mouth, gently and slowly as not to wake him, and places a kiss to the knuckles.

Moments later, when he's let go of the hand, he realises that Weekes is awake, and staring at them. Henry can't pinpoint if it's disbelief or fascination that he sees in his gaze, so he chooses to ignore it - ignore him.

That day, the whaling ship is visible to the naked eye, so close, so close. Emboldened by this, they pick up the pace, or attempt to. James walks slower and slower, jaw clenched, visibly pained. If Henry didn't make an effort to slow down to wait for him he'd be long left behind.

"What's the matter?" Henry asks when they have the lone meal of the day.

"I'm exhausted," James says, his voice stretched thin like a sheet of ice about to crack. "It's this heat," he mumbles, and tries to open the collar of his shirt. 

It is certainly warmer than in the dead of winter, but Henry would not call this heat.

"Steady on," he says, nevertheless. "We're almost there."

"I know," James says.

They make some progress, but not enough. When it's time to rest for the night, James falls asleep the moment he lies down, a heavy, unnatural slumber. Henry reaches to touch him. He is burning with fever, and his forehead is damp with sweat. Good God. Henry pulls James into his arms with a cold dread in his belly. This was not supposed to happen. They have to keep going. They have to. 

"Listen to me," he tells Weekes. His voice comes out more commanding than he thought possible in his state of mind. "Tomorrow morning, as soon as you wake, you'll go on without us. Take his weapon and go. You're a day away at most."

"And you, sir?" Weekes asks, his voice uncertain.

"I will stay with him. And I will wait for you and the help you will bring. Understood?"

"But..."

"Understood, Weekes?"

"Yes, sir."

He sleeps very little. Every time he dozes off, James happens to shiver in his arms and wakes him. What can be wrong? He wasn't particularly ill when they began walking, but he is stubborn enough to have hidden whatever bothered him if it meant marching along. Or he might have overestimated his strength. Henry starts stroking James's hair, massaging his scalp with his fingers to bring him some comfort. He used to like this, centuries ago. The content noise James makes in his unconscious state is enough for Henry to finally sleep.

Weekes is gone when Henry rouses. James too, is awake, though his left eye is bloodshot and lifeless.

"Hullo there," Henry says, his throat tight as he pulls the blanket around them. 

"Dundy," James says, tiredly. "Should've left me."

"Don't be silly. Weekes will be back with help before we know it."

"Too late for me." 

James reaches down between them and starts attempting to pull his shirt open with little success. Henry humours him and does it himself, trying not to think of all the times he's undressed him in happier circumstances. James grabs his hand and directs it to his left side. The damp, slick sensation makes Henry recoil. When he pulls his hand back, his fingers come out red with blood. Oh, fuck.

"What," he manages to say.

"They reopened. I don't know why."

"You shouldn't have been pulling that useless boat, that's why," Henry grumbles, to say something, though he knows that's likely not the reason. James is ill and bleeding, help is a day away and there is nothing he can do. "Try to go back to sleep," he adds, at a loss for ideas.

"Don't be mad if I die, Harry."

"You aren't going to die," he says, firmly. "We are sailing back to England and the whaling ship's surgeon will patch you right up."

James doesn't argue with that, mercifully. It seems he's fallen asleep again. Henry lies back down with him, staring up at the deceptively cheerful blue skies. He is burning with energy, enough to keep going and going as fast as he can, but he cannot. Perhaps Crozier's compassion is not as harebrained as Henry thought before. He'd never leave James behind. Other men? He doesn't know. Perhaps he would, if it meant saving himself. But not this one. Not James. 

Weekes's silhouette gets smaller and smaller in the horizon. If he reaches the ship by nightfall and a search party is sent out - that would mean help is but a few hours away. Could Henry perhaps carry James some of the way? He certainly feels strong enough to, but moving James in this state seems unwise. Better stay put and wait for Weekes. How can wounds reopen like this? Old wounds, six-year old wounds. What should he expect for the fresher wound of his foot? He considers taking off his boot to investigate, but the dread of what he might find there stops him.

"I was thinking of China," James says against his neck, startling him out of his thoughts. "Of the night we met. Do you remember it?"

"Of course I do," Henry says shortly, terrified to revisit these memories in the current circumstances.

"I wanted you as soon as I saw you." James makes a sound that is supposed to be a laugh, but sounds like a raspy cough. "We had fun back then. Didn't we? Henry."

"Yeah. It was all fun back then."

"Not now, huh?" James asks tiredly, guessing at once what Henry didn't want to say with his answer. "Maybe not lately, either."

"Mm." Henry doesn't want to have this conversation now. He forces himself to use a cheerful tone to say, "I have to say this does rank very low on my 'fun memories with James' list."

"There's a list?" James sounds elated, and Henry's heart tightens. "What would number one be?"

"Uhh." On the spot, Henry combs through his memories to come up with something. It's no surprise that most of them have to do with sex one way or another, but he does not want to speak of this either, not now. "The boar in India," he says, on a whim.

"The _tiger,_ you mean."

He can't help a smile at the correction. "Yes, of course. The tiger, I am sorry."

That _is_ a fun story. Shortly after sailing from Bombay, they docked in Gujarat with the Clio. One of the governors was having a party in his princely estate bordered by the jungle. The guests were assigned to charming little bungalows, and he and James so happened to have one to themselves - which does bring a set of happier, carnal memories he is quick to keep at bay. In any case, one of the estate workers, a native man, told Henry fanciful stories about tiger sightings in the nearby vegetation. The occasion was too good to pass: after hours and hours of begging James, they'd set off at night hoping to see the tiger. What they saw instead was a wild boar who charged at them with mad force - they ran, convinced they'd seen a tiger, to the great hilarity of their guide. James made Henry swear on his life that he'd never tell a soul about their ridiculous encounter with a modest boar. 

He lets out a short laugh.

"We did have fun, James," he says, holding him tighter. "I was very happy then."

"And now?"

"Why do you insist on having this conversation? If you already know my answer, you know why I feel the way I do." Henry allows himself a frustrated sigh. "We had good times in the past. We're having a shit one now. Good times will come again when this is over. Don't you worry yourself sick about this now and go back to sleep."

"I am sorry, for what it's worth," James says, stubbornly. "I do wish things had been different. I wish _I'd_ been different, Harry."

"But I never wanted you to be different. I only wanted you. All of you." It is getting harder and harder to keep level-headed, not with so much bitterness threatening to spill out with every word. "Come on, James. Sleep. I need you strong again when Weekes returns with help."

"But do you forgive me? I know Francis won't. I wish you would."

"Well, _I_ wish you wouldn't say both our names in the same breath. But yes, of course I forgive you. I've always forgiven you, haven't I?"

His tone was too harsh. It sounded like Henry has always forgiven him but begrudgingly, undeservedly. It isn't at all how he meant it, but he is too tired to amend it. 

It seems to stun James into silence, in any case. He falls asleep shortly thereafter, and doesn't wake again. He is alive: Henry can feel his pulse, rapid and unsteady, somewhere in his neck. But he doesn't rouse when he tries to give him water, or when he moves him so that they can sleep. Henry regrets their conversation. He wishes he could undo it. All that's left for him is to wait, and to hope.

* * *

  
  
  


James doesn't wake either when a dozen men from the whaling ship appear on the horizon. Instead of relief at being rescued, Henry feels only dread. The sailors, while white, do not speak English, but Weekes evidently managed to communicate with them. One of them hands Henry a piece of raw meat and tells him something he cannot understand. But he can guess from the smile and the warm tone that he's saying something along the lines of 'there, there, it's all over now.' 

Henry feels like crying.

He eats the meat, soft and blubbery, unlike any other he has ever eaten before. It must be whale meat. Numb, Henry follows two men who carry James to the ship on the blanket they were using to sleep. The rest of the sailors, he guesses, go on to meet Crozier's party. 

The surgeon is a rubicond but sensible fellow who does speak some broken English. He examines James with none of Stanley's disgust, and begins cleaning the wounds at once. (The same wounds as in China, like a wretched piece of sorcery. Henry stares and stares at the blood, unable to tear his gaze from this scene he's already lived through once, and that he's just as unprepared to witness again. It seems like a nightmare. Everything about James being ill has always been a nightmare.) 

"Bad, very bad," the surgeon tells Henry, in a frank yet kind tone. "But he young, hm? He strong."

"Yes," Henry says, and makes a sound that is both a laugh and a sob. 

The surgeon gestures towards a pitcher of water, bidding Henry to drink. It's deliciously fresh, and tastes lemony. Maybe James will feel better once he starts drinking this too. He clings on to that hope so hard he ends up obeying the surgeon when he mimics for Henry to sleep.

As he looks for a place to rest, Henry becomes aware of his surroundings for the first time since he came aboard. The whaling ship, while far from the magnificence of Erebus, is a large and sturdy vessel, fit for hauling the large mammals onto its prow. It's large enough that he doesn't find Weekes readily, and he's too tired to try. The scarce men left from their expedition should fit aboard, tightly perhaps, but they will; they should be here in a week, perhaps less time - safe and sound, he hopes. As for sailing speed, well, it's only a guess, but perhaps in a month they may be on their way home in earnest. 

When he curls in a corner with a blanket the surgeon gave him, Henry thinks that there won't be much of a home to return to for him if James isn't in it. Falling asleep feels much like sinking into a fog of uncertainty, and yet he welcomes it.

  
  



	2. The Sleeping Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le Vesconte and Crozier have a conversation long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feat. some Bridgens

* * *

The ship is Danish, and its Captain does speak English. They sail every summer from their settlement in Greenland to hunt whales but, he says, the last two winters have been too brutal to let them come this far North. _I'll say,_ Henry thinks wryly when he hears that. They were lucky: the ship was set to sail one day after Weekes reached it. If they had waited longer to walk, they would have found an empty bay with no ship to take them. 

"We saw your fire," the Captain tells them, "but we thought it was the natives. We paid it no mind."

It's strange to be on a ship without having a useful occupation: Henry has never been a passenger, has never had to sit idly while the boat hums alive under his feet. He's caught himself wanting to speak up, lend a hand, correct a small irregularity, and every time he's had to sit back down, out of place and useless. In any case, the surgeon would scold him if he attempted any physical labour: his foot was badly injured when the cauterised wounds reopened, apparently. Henry should walk as little as possible in the coming weeks if he wants to keep it. It's just as well that he has an occupation that allows him near perfect immobility all day: watching James sleep.

Only Crozier was given a cabin in deference to his rank, but he ceded it to James the moment it was safe to move him from the sick bay. Henry stared as two sailors carried him into what had been Crozier's bed until then. He stayed by the door in complete silence, feeling wretched beyond belief as the old man fussed around James to try to make him more comfortable. 

And yet when James did open his eyes, he slurred, "Harry?" Henry stepped in the room at once and held on to his hand tight. No one has been able to make him leave the cabin since.

They say James is getting better but, by God, he looks pitiful. He is as pale as the bedsheets he lies on. He has grown so thin his eyes are hollowed out, making his cheekbones stand out in an unnatural way. His left arm, that he's unlikely to ever be able to use again in full, is only bones. His left eye, too, is painful to look at. He still whimpers on occasion as waves of pain rake through him and make him shudder in his uneasy sleep. All that Henry can do is hold his hand and say sweet nothings to him, like he did so many years ago. It worked then. Perhaps it will work now too, and help him live. 

"Will you be needing anything, sir?" Bridgens asks him one evening from the door. Somehow, he's fallen back with ease into his steward role in this new ship despite not speaking a lick of Danish. "Perhaps a shave?"

"Yes." Henry touches his face and scratches his beard absently. "I suppose so, Bridgens."

He is quick to reappear with a towel, some soap, a mirror, and a shaving knife. Henry grabs the mirror to inspect himself, but he's completely unprepared for what he sees. He's barely in better shape than James. His eyes too are sunken, wild. He looks ten years older than when he last saw his reflection, thin, sickly, and greyer. And his beard - no wonder Bridgens suggested a shave. It's grown beyond recognition.

"We've all been through a nightmare, haven't we, sir?" Bridgens says gently.

Henry glances up at him, then at James's sleeping form. "I am not sure the nightmare is over."

"He will recover, sir, I have no doubt about that. And, God willing, we will finish our own Odyssey very soon."

"And make it to Ithaca?" Henry says, always surprised at how Bridgens's erudition manifests at the oddest times.

"Yes. To Ithaca at last."

He hasn't considered this far in the future. If James lives, and he just might, and they do make it back to England in whatever ship will take them... what then? His parents... His sisters... All in Canada. And what is to be done with James? The thought of ending it all between did cross his mind with increasing irritation in the past months. Returning landside would make for a clean break, so that they can both be free of this tangled cobweb that binds them together and go on their separate ways, wherever they take them. But it isn't only vague relief that he feels when he considers this possibility. It's something very close to dread. No, no, he could never.

"Mm." Henry clears his throat and shakes his head. "We don't know that Ulysses was happy after his return."

"It doesn't matter, sir. It only matters that he returned."

He is right, he supposes. Henry glances at himself in the mirror again. He does not know where to begin, the facial hair too long, too thick. He's never grown this full a beard. He might as well shave it all off and begin growing the side whiskers anew. But in truth, he's not been clean shaven since he was very young, younger even than when he met James. After some hesitation, he reaches for the water bassinet of the cabin and lathers himself with the soap. He will trim it himself. The knife makes a dry, familiar slicing sound against the coarse hair when he begins. Bridgens watches the progress with a critical eye, maintaining a polite distance. Henry glances up at him when he's done one side of his face.

"How is Peglar faring?" he asks, holding his gaze to make his meaning clear - hoping he looks friendly enough.

Bridgens, startled at first, stares back at him as if gauging his interest. Then something in his bearing acknowledges that they're long past any pretense after the ordeal they've been through. He smiles.

"He is better, sir. Well on the mend. That lemon water does wonders."

"Good," Henry says, and continues shaving.

When he's more or less done, Bridgens steps closer to help him with the neck bits. At first, this did not happen very often aboard: James has always liked helping him shave. But something went awry during the expedition, along with everything else that fell apart between them, and he had to ask Bridgens for help on occasion towards the end. Henry doesn't like this line of thought. He sponges off his face and looks at his [clean-shaven self](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0bfc322a1694577f8e99dc9d03170893/7531a1f027cabd66-64/s640x960/46ee14f2515f4bad9c65d2ed2124b05c69f3ea4e.jpg) in the mirror. Yes, he looks less haggard, less lost like this, though the muted forlornness in his gaze remains. He touches his chin, wishing he had that fine clover beard oil that they once picked up in Java. James loved that one. He sighs.

"Thank you, Bridgens," he says.

"Of course, sir." He starts gathering the implements one by one. "If I may ask you something? I do not know whether to speak directly to Captain Crozier or wait until Captain Fitzjames feels better."

"Ask ahead."

"When we left the ships, I knew taking books along would be a futile endeavour. But it seemed to me a great shame to leave the logbooks behind, with all the observations you and Commander Fitzjames recorded so carefully all these years. I still have them, along with the scarce belongings we brought on the way to this ship. What's to be done with them?"

Henry looks at him with veritable wonder, moved by the steward's endless thoughtfulness.

"Hold on to them tight," he tells him, "and show them to James when he feels better. He'll be so very pleased to have them. I cannot thank you enough, Bridgens."

"No need to thank me, sir," Bridgens says, with his modest smile. 

He is a true treasure. Henry smiles back at him. 

Once alone, he sits himself on the floor with his back against the wooden wall of the ship - his favourite spot, since the lone chair of the cabin is too stiff, too narrow to be truly comfortable for many hours. James is asleep on the berth, sprawled in his usual messy way despite his illness: one leg out of bed and the other bent against the wall, tangled up in the covers as if he were fighting with them. The sight is so familiar Henry cannot help a smile. And yet there's an expression on his face far from the peaceful one James normally would wear when he sleeps - a painful scowl, a twisting of his mouth. Nothing will ever be the same again, will it.

The sound of footsteps nearby startles him out of his contemplation. He does not need to look up to know it's Crozier. He comes every evening around this time to check on James. Henry never leaves the room, staying in his corner stubbornly as Crozier does his thing. They've never spoken. They've never even acknowledged each other, come to think of it. A part of himself, impish and rude, yearns to tell him to leave, that he isn't welcome here. He never listens to that part of himself. Instead, he pretends not to notice Crozier and patiently waits for him to leave. It's a small mercy, he supposes, that James has never been awake while he's there.

Today, however, Crozier grabs the chair and instead of placing it next to the berth, he turns it towards Henry, facing him. He doesn't say anything, he only stares at him with a faint smile, as if he did not know how to begin the conversation. Henry has no inclination to, so he says nothing either.

After a long, infinitely awkward moment, Crozier says, "Henry," and he sounds exhausted.

Henry cringes at the familiar form of address: they've hardly ever spoken in earnest before. Should he call him Francis in turn, like James does? The notion is distasteful. 

"Sir," Henry says, dryly, and nods for a greeting. 

"Henry, I hope you know that we have no reason to be at odds, you and I."

"At odds, sir?" He frowns. "Because of our treason?"

"No," Crozier says. "I am no stranger to taking matters into your own hands when a Captain is too long to see reason. And now you've saved us all with your brashness im consequence. No, I don't blame you for that. Either of you."

So Crozier will likely not denounce them in the inevitable court martial. Only then does Henry realise his fists are closed tight. He unclenches them. But he can only think of one other reason why they might be at odds, he and Crozier, and it's the kind of reason no one would ever speak of out loud. The old man leans forward, with a vaguely kind expression in his gaze, but Henry is rather reminded of the look a parent or an older brother might use on an unruly child: still patient but getting mildly exasperated. 

"I will not ask that we be friends," Crozier goes on. "But I can ask that we not be unfriends. Haven't we had enough of this in this accursed expedition? Have we not torn each other to pieces for petty reasons, more than the creature ever did?"

Henry says nothing, too bemused to reply. He is rarely in the mood for self-reflection or philosophy, now less than ever, and even less so in this company.

"After all," Crozier adds, before Henry gathers his wits, "we do want the same thing, you and I."

The same _thing?_ Oh, after weeks of feeling nothing, of forbidding himself to feel anything more complicated than 'make James comfortable', the hot anger rushing to Henry's face is almost welcome.

"What thing is that?" he asks in a low, unsteady tone, and he omits the 'sir' deliberately. 

"For James to get well," Crozier answers, as if it were obvious, both his eyebrows raised to punctuate his meaning.

"Oh, I do want James to get well," Henry says, more savagely than he intended, his heart beating a wild staccato. "I want him well and happy and... happy again."

He bites back the 'and with me' that was threatening to spill from his lips, just in time, though the sentence was clumsy. Crozier averts his gaze. He seems to be gathering his thoughts before speaking again. 

"Every man carries his own burden that he must face before being truly happy. I don't know that James will ever rid himself of his enough to be happy."

Henry does not understand at first what Crozier can possibly mean with this, what burden, but then it strikes him: he's speaking of James's secret. So James _told_ Crozier about it, confessed the truth of his birth, offering his true self for him to judge or cherish. Something twists in Henry's heart at this rare mark of trust. He hates this feeling of being so unsteady on his feet, of having his hands slippery and useless as he tries to hold on to something that has long escaped his grasp. 

"What of _your_ burden?" he says, aiming for maximum damage. "Do you think you've rid yourself of it? Left it on the ice somewhere, along with your stash of whiskey?"

Crozier flinches, blinks, and does not meet his gaze. "I hope so," he says, quietly.

He looks so crestfallen that Henry feels ashamed all of a sudden. That was unkind of him, was it not. He's been frustrated with Crozier for months if not years and not just because of James. He went from irritated to exasperated to downright angry to see him drowning in the drink while he and James were left to look after the men from both ships. Later, he was livid to learn Crozier struck James. The thought that he might die trying to wean himself off the bottle was met with no particular anguish on his part. 

But Crozier did guide them well on the long march South, keeping discipline as much as was humanly possible - and while he failed to lead them to the whaling ship in time, their rescue is in large part due to his insistent command that they leave the ships, one they should have followed long ago before they lost so many men. Perhaps Henry should be more charitable. More Christian. He should apologise. He bites his lips. 

"I too want James to be happy," Crozier says, before Henry has a chance to speak. He meets his gaze, at long last. "I think he's happier, in a manner of speaking, if you are with him. Am I wrong?"

"I don't know," Henry says, an old, familiar ache growing somewhere deep inside him. "I wish I knew."

"I think you do know. And he knows as well, despite what you may think. I'm not... blind, Henry. I may be an old fool but I am not blind."

If his heart was thumping before, it seems to slow to a crawl now. Henry should stand, he feels, he should stand and tower over Crozier and show he is not afraid. But he does not rise. He does not move one bit, frozen on the spot where he's sitting on the floor. And yet: Crozier is smiling at him, a sad, pained grimace.

"And I?" he adds, "I've brought him nothing but frustration, all these long months."

"Don't say that," Henry says, his voice raspy. The words burn on his tongue when he utters them, "He... cared about you. About what you thought of him. He lost sleep fretting over whether you respected him."

Crozier sighs. "I didn't always. But I do now. I wish I told him earlier, and more often."

"Tell him then, when he wakes. He will be happy to know it."

Crozier lets out a wry chuckle. "Are you giving me your permission?"

"Not permission. Friendly guidance. On how to make him happy."

That was physically painful to say. Henry averts his gaze, fixating on the wall of the cabin where there is nothing to see. 

"Thank you," Crozier says, his tone soft.

Henry does not look at him, not even as he hears him standing and putting the chair back in its place. He stops right next to the berth, but Henry does not glance in that direction to see what it is that he's doing to James. The footsteps move away, retreating and leaving the room at long last. Henry lets out a wavering sigh. 

When he finally works up enough courage to look at James again, he's startled to find him awake, his tired eyes wide open as he stares at him. 

"Henry," he says, hoarsely. "Dearest."

Stunned, Henry wavers between exasperation and amusement before letting out a short laugh. He stands up to move closer to the bed. 

"You rascal," he scolds. "Don't tell me you were awake all this time."

James shakes his head no, the very picture of innocence, but Henry does not believe him at all. This is just like him, like his old self - playing pranks when he really should not. 

"M'happy. Happier," James says, although speaking is clearly a great effort, "with _you_."

"All right now," Henry tells him gently, touching his lips with his fingers to silence him. Still smiling, he also touches his forehead. No fever. He's not had a fever for three days now. 

James grabs him by the collar of his shirt, weakly, wanting to pull him down but not having the strength to do it. Henry obliges and leans even closer. James's lips are dry and chafed against his, but the fleeting kiss is very sweet. He strokes Henry's freshly shaved cheek thoughtfully, then his expression turns into something of a disapproving pout.

"It'll grow back," Henry tells him with a laugh.

For the first time in a long while, he allows himself to believe in this faint, uncertain glimmer of hope that perhaps all will be well between them.


	3. The Elephant in the Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one said it would be easy
> 
> or;
> 
> James is a complicated man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James POV.
> 
> A brief warning for some behaviors due to PSTD that James seems to have developed (and Henry in the next). I don't think either merits a tag but keep it in mind.

* * *

A crowd presses on the docks, impatient to receive them.

A crowd.

Naively perhaps, James hoped there would be no one waiting for them in Portsmouth, that they'd be able to disembark without pomp and disappear from the public eye until the inevitable court martial. By then, James should have recovered more and would look a little less like the shell of a man he's become in the long voyage home. He grabbed a mirror when Henry was not looking one day, and his own reflection horrified him: ill, thin, despondent. His left eye had an unsightly scar _inside_ the orb. He never looked at himself again, not on the whaling ship and not on the Hudson Bay ship that volunteered to bring them to Britain. But now that he stands on the deck, James dearly wishes he bothered using a mirror when he dressed this morning. To comb his hair, at the very least, because the hand-me-downs clothes the sailors gifted them are hopelessly unfixable. Good grief, he'll have to limp ashore down the gangway. Henry will likely be kind enough to offer his arm, but it will be impossible to hide that James is not able to stand unaided.

Funny, isn't it. Some five years ago he'd have never fathomed not being the first to step down the boat after so long a journey, so perilous a voyage - greeting the crowd, talking out loud to anyone willing to hear. 

Now, he lingers behind on deck, letting a handful of men go first to meet the first wave of onlookers. If they had disembarked in one of the more distant docks, this could have been avoided. Yet here they are, dead centre in the enormous shipyard of Portsmouth, overlooking the main docks frenzied with their usual activity in addition to the curious crowd. James sends an irrational glare at the entire city that he glimpses from this vantage point, grey and bustling and insufferable.

"Come on," Dundy says next to him, likely sensing his reluctance. "We've got to get down some day."

"Lend me your hat, I would not want..." 

James interrupts his sentence, because 'I would not want to be seen in this state' is too great a blow to his already battered pride. Henry obliges wordlessly: the sailor cap is dirty and hideous, but it looks better than James's own hair.

"Who are they, all of them?" he grumbles, reaching for Dundy to steady himself. 

"Family, I'm guessing." Henry holds him around the waist to be able to shoulder his weight better, even as he peers down the railing. "I can see Lady Jane from here."

Lady Jane. Oh, but his own old grief for Sir John has never really abated. James ought to go speak to her, explain what happened, offer his condolences. But then: what to say about the creature? They should have discussed this with the rest of the officers. James isn't keen to be regarded as a delusional man with fantastic tales that would cover him in ridicule for years to come. If he's asked, he will say it was an honest-to-God bear, and that will be the end of it. This too is new: not too long ago he would have relished the chance to tell this tale embellishing their bravery, then maybe paint the beast himself with watercolours, and volunteer to be the head of a new expedition to hunt it in earnest. As it stands now, he'd rather never see a flake of snow ever again, let alone speak of their tormentor.

"I think I see your brother too," Henry says, helping him take a few treacherous steps down. "There. Isn't that him?"

James gasps, ready to run down the gangway as he indeed sees that William is standing there in the docks, a little aside from the crowd with an anguished look on his face. If it wasn't for Dundy holding him, he'd have done something very silly and fallen flat on his face, no doubt.

"Will!" he shouts, and waves at him. At least his voice is strong enough these days. "Willy!"

Oh - the smile on Will's face as he hears him! And he can run in his stead, bolting forward and joining them just as they step foot on land at long last. 

"My poor old Jim," he says, his voice strangled as he pulls him out of Henry's grip and into his. "I thought I'd never see you again!"

"You nearly did not," James says, and hugs him tight, tight, as tight as his bad arm can manage. "It's so good to see you. How did you know to come?"

"It was all over the papers, of course. In Brighton, in London, everywhere. People are most keen to know what happened to you."

"That explains the crowd," James tells Dundy, who has not stepped away from them quite yet. "You remember Le Vesconte, don't you, Will?"

"How do you do, Mister Coningham," Henry says. 

He sounds tired. Or perhaps a little out of spirits. An erstwhile worry tightens James's throat: the fear that he will never see Henry again if he lets him out of his sight on land. It happened once before. He does not think he is strong enough to go through it again. 

"Of course I remember him, how do you do?" says Will. "My, you've both been through a most dreadful ordeal, haven't you? You look as if you were returned straight from Hades."

"If only you knew how right you are," James says, his throat still tight. "Say, my dear, I don't fancy going to London just yet in this state. Would it be possible to impose on you in your little house in Brighton for a few days? To at least get some decent clothing."

William looks at him in disbelief. "You do not think I came all the way here to see you but for a few minutes! Of course you are coming home with me. I'll not have it any other way, you hear me?"

"In that case," James says, and reaches for Henry's arm, "could I perhaps beg you to host Henry as well? He has no family here in England at the moment and I do worry about the old boy. He'd be miserable all by himself in a dark little flat if I left him to his own devices."

"What can you possibly mean, James?" Henry says, glaring at him superbly. "I have many cousins I may go to. I could not impose in this fashion on Mister Coningham and his family."

"Please call me William," Will says, bless him. "Henry, oh, I may call you Henry too, I hope? It would be no imposition, I would be most delighted to have you home with us. As would my wife, I am certain of it."

"It's settled then," James says, fully aware of how impossible it is to refuse William's solicitude when he gets a fancy. 

"I am exceedingly grateful," Henry says, sounding resigned but flashing one last playful glare at James. "Thank you most keenly for your gracious offer."

James exhales a sigh of relief. He smiles at him, just barely, just a twitching of his lips that Henry returns just as covertly.

"I have my man waiting with the hansom just in the back here," Will says, oblivious to their silent exchange. "But you will want to say good-bye to your mates, I suppose?"

James gives a hesitant glance around the docks, where the same scenes of reunion are replicated for most, if not all the surviving men. By God, at least some of them did make it back - but so few. Some women, widows now, are crying for those who did not return. It isn't an exaggeration to say that seeing this is as agonising as ripping his heart from his chest would feel. They were his men. He failed to bring them home. James blinks. He must look away from these scenes, he simply cannot bear this. Aching for something more pleasant, he searches for Crozier in the crowd: he finds him at last near Sir James Ross, whom James had not remarked until now. But Francis is looking in his direction too, and when their gazes meet he seems to become more resolute. He walks towards James, an uncertain smile on his lips as he crosses the short distance between them.

"James," he says, very softy, when he's near enough.

At a loss for words, James leans forward to pull him into a heartfelt embrace. He'd have never believed this possible a mere year ago. He was so certain Francis hated him, so certain, and that he'd hate him and despise him until the end of days. Now in his arms, he basks in the warmth of this hug, vaguely vindicated and moved so deeply he needs to bite his lips not to be overcome to the point of tears. He clings to Crozier as it strikes him that this is one of the last chapters of this wretched expedition, and yet there's a feeling of loss, of something unfinished, of much left unsaid.

"No hard feelings, I hope?" James tells him as he pulls back. He has to lean on William for balance. 

"None whatsoever, dear boy," Francis says. "Fare thee well, and see you very soon, I hope." He turns towards Dundy, one hand extended. "Henry?"

Henry stares at the offered hand perhaps a little too long, but he shakes it in the end. 

"Godspeed, sir," he says, his voice studiously neutral - enough to alarm James into staring at him. But Dundy returns his glance with perfect calm, even as Crozier leaves them.

"Shall we go, then?" William asks, eager as ever.

"Yes, let us go at once," James tells him. "I cannot wait to kiss Lizzie and the children."

* * *

  
  


James awakens in pain. For a brief disquieting moment, he is struck with disorientation - where is he? Why does it hurt? But he recognises his old room in Brighton, just as he left it years ago. The pain radiates, of course, from his left arm. As he moves to his good side, he discovers Dundy on the bed with him, still asleep.

Oh.

Will's house only has three bedrooms, and only one of them is a guest room - James's room, tacitly. There was considerable fuss on where to accommodate Henry: William offered to transform the sitting room for the time being; Elizabeth suggested perhaps one of the servants' quarters that they'd arrange suitably; the children, bless them, were willing to give up their nursery. 'Nonsense,' James said, silencing everyone, 'Henry will room with me,' and that was quite the end of it. Will and Lizzie love him too much to question him, James is well aware. The bed is certainly larger than those they've shared in the past, well-suited for two grown men to rest without getting into each other's hair.

Too wearied from the ride to Brighton, and then from William's over-excited conversation, James fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Now, in the faint, gentle light that spills through the half-open curtains, James can pause and stare at Henry next to him, and thank his stars that they lived to see a quiet morning like this. He's grown greyer, certainly, but he looks none worse for the wear. Perhaps a little too thin, but his body has always been somewhat wiry. He hasn't let his beard or the 'chops grow, clean-shaven like a young lad despite having reassured James that he would go back to his usual style. It suits him, he has to admit. Dundy looks so peaceful like this, beautiful like an Ancient statue, graceful even as his chest moves up and down with each breath. Fascinated, James slides closer to him, hoping not to wake him as he lies an arm across his belly and rests against him.

James's clothes were still stored in the trunks where he'd left them, cleaned and scented just for his return. He had to lend Henry some to sleep - a shirt only, because he refused a nightgown. It does not fit him well, being less broad in the shoulders than James: it looks like he is drowning in the fabric. Regardless, there's some... primitive, elemental satisfaction in seeing him like this, in his bed, wearing his own clothes. Very gently, he slides his fingers into Henry's hair and he strokes it out of his forehead to kiss his temple. Dundy stirs, to his chagrin, and an instant later he opens his eyes tiredly.

"Oh, I didn't mean to wake you," James whispers, quite contrite.

"Hm." 

Henry closes his eyes with a sigh. He shifts, rolls a little - enough to move away from the embrace. James blinks, shocked with how much this hurts him. But then: Dundy is still half-asleep, surely James cannot put too much weight on this, can he? And yet the hurt lingers, suffocates him. He rolls onto his back and keeps his hands to himself, finding it harder to breathe.

"Dundy," he insists after a moment.

"Mmm?"

"Are you going to keep sleeping?"

" 'pparentlynot," Henry mumbles, and sighs again. He yawns, stretching on the bed very much like a long-limbed housecat. He rubs his face with his hand and glances at James. "Good morning, then."

James grins at him, absurdly relieved. "Good morning to you."

"Did you ring for breakfast yet?"

"Not yet."

The old Henry would have been on his feet in an instant, clamouring for food. But now he only makes an unhappy sound - and no move to get out of bed. He yawns again and examines the sleeve of the shirt he's wearing, as if he did not remember how this came to be. He shakes his head.

"I have to go to London and get my clothes from my cousin's place," he says, his tone unhappy. "If she still has them."

"Not immediately, I hope? You know you may borrow mine for as long as you wish."

Henry rolls his eyes. "Absolutely not. I would look ridiculous."

"Do _I_ look ridiculous?" James asks, a little ruffled.

"Largely, yes, but in an aesthetically pleasing way. I don't know how you manage."

"How dare you," James says with a huff.

Henry only smiles. He pulls the covers up slightly, enough to uncover his feet, or rather, his poor foot. He wriggles his remaining toes, as if to make sure they do work. The reopened wounds have closed by now, but the scars are still red, flush with blood. If James were to touch them he is certain they would feel gelatinous. At least Dundy won't lose the foot, though he might have to use a cane in the not so distant future. James stares at this new infirmity, rather aware of his own as well. He's been seeing less and less from his left eye, though he hasn't told anyone. He flexes his left hand open with some effort, mirroring Dundy's exertions. 

Who would have said, five years ago, that they'd be counting their miseries in bed like this?

"I have to ask you something," Henry says, startling him out of his sullen thoughts. 

"All right."

"You will not like it."

"I'm all ears," James says, intrigued now.

"Are you in love with Crozier?"

Of all the things to ask! James stares at him, wondering if he's joking, but Dundy looks serious. Deathly serious. The few times James has seen him looking like this have all ended up in some row or other. For God's sake, they've just woken up. He thought Henry was still sleepy. He twists his mouth into a scowl.

"You have some cheek to ask me this when you're in bed with me."

Henry sits up a bit, the covers pooling in his lap. He looks down at James, or rather, glares down at him.

"Nevertheless, I am asking. I need to know it if I'm to stay in this bed. So? Are you in love with Crozier?"

"No, you silly goose. I am not in love with him."

 _If I were, I'd be in bed with him,_ James thinks with some irritation, but he does not say it. He had the vague hope that this would be the end of it, but Henry does not look done. He looks more cross, puzzlingly - James thought he'd be pleased with the negative.

"Were you, then?" Dundy insists.

Oh, this question is far more treacherous to answer. James glances away. He has several answers he might offer. The first is 'no', and would cut this conversation short - but it feels unnecessary harsh. Henry is entitled to a truthful answer, he supposes. The second is, quite obviously, along the lines of 'what does it matter now, if I'm no longer in love?' and is equally dismissive. The third answer, 'I thought I might be', is both misleading and vague, and would pain Henry needlessly. James clears his throat. He does not like having to defend himself, but he's brought that on himself to begin with, hasn't he. 

"I don't know," he says after a long silence. "I am aware this is a poor answer." He looks up to meet Dundy's gaze, feeling rather sheepish at the sight of the raw hurt on his eyes. "I do not expect you to understand it, or to... forgive it. But I wanted him. And I wanted his love in any way I could have it. His love, his lust, his admiration, whatever one may call it."

"And now that you have it?"

Having earned the love of someone who despised him - how to articulate that? It was a triumph greater than any promotion or adventure he'd seen to a good end, and indeed far more satisfying than a mundane conquest. Oh, James would have died happy knowing Francis did not hate him.

"I've known I have his regard for some time now," James admits, trying to meet Henry's gaze again, but he finds him unwilling. He thinks of that conversation with Francis by the cairn, now swept away with the rest of the nightmare, unreachable. "I felt... I felt at peace when I realised it. Relieved, even. Not... ravenously in love." He swallows. "I know what _that_ feels like."

James hopes, he desperately hopes that Henry will understand what he is trying to tell him. But Dundy shakes his head and lies back down on the bed, not looking pleased in the least.

"By God," Henry says, and presses one arm to his forehead in frustration, "you can be utterly insufferable at times!"

He said it without any of the playfulness that has accompanied such comments in the past. James's heart twists with dread. _If I'm to stay in this bed,_ Henry said. Maybe he meant _if I'm to stay at all._ James crawls closer to him.

"Not too insufferable, I hope? Harry."

Henry removes the arm from his forehead and meets his gaze - James rather wishes he hadn't. The look in his eyes is stern, impatient.

"What am I to answer, hm? Might I say 'I don't know' to you, just as you have?"

"You are free to say whatever you like," James says briskly. "At least you're saying something at all, instead of stewing in silence, scowling at me, and leaving me to guess what the matter is and how I can fix it!"

Yes, brilliant, that's a fine way to resolve the argument. Annoyed at his own stupidity, James rolls away to sulk in peace, but not before he sees that Henry looks stunned with the comeback. It wasn't entirely truthful to begin with. Of course James knew what the matter was, back then. But since Henry seemed determined to stay silent, he brushed it aside, thinking to ignore it enough for it to go away or, failing that, deal with it later. Later, later, later. Later has arrived, it seems, and he is still as woefully unprepared. 

They should have talked about this earlier. They would be well past this unpleasantness if Henry had said something then. James would have welcomed him saying something, anything, to make him snap out of the downwards spiral he was caught in. 

Oh, who is he fooling with this. They'd have had a row on the ship if Henry said something. And they'd certainly be well past this unpleasantness if James had been less of a dunce to begin with. He shakes his head at himself. 

"Christ. I'm the silly goose in this bed, am I not?" he says, still not facing Henry. "I am sorry, for what it's worth."

He hears him chuckle, to his surprise. "You've said that before. Using the very same words, I believe."

"Have I?" James turns his head only, not his body. Henry isn't facing him either. "When? I don't recall."

"When you were ill. I figured you were too ill to mean it."

There are some parts of the long march to the whaling ship that James does not remember well, that seem to be trapped in a fog too thick to wander in. That apology must be in there, erased like a stroke of the pen on a letter. But he does remember Henry holding him when he was ill. He also remembers Henry saying he was done and tired when he asked him to walk to the ship - James remembers the visceral fear of being too late, of being left on his own, of losing him. He should have never steered so close to waters as dire as these.

"I am not ill now, Henry," he says, more quietly. "And I do mean it. With all of my heart."

Henry rolls on the bed towards him. He presses against his back, enveloping him in his arms. James's breath hitches as he melts into this embrace. Dundy's arms are strong and steady around him. The warmth of his breath tickles the back of his neck, and then - a kiss, soft and fleeting against his skin.

"I suppose I will have to forgive you in earnest, then," Henry says, and stays pressed close to him.

"Please," James whispers. 

Dundy nuzzles against his neck and then eases down with a content, "Hmm."

Oh, to stay like this for hours, for days even, cosy under the covers while Henry holds him so tightly. James presses back into him and basks in this simple pleasure, in equal parts amazed and comforted at how good it feels. He closes his eyes, so perfectly content just now that the Arctic seems but a crazed nightmare, something remote and foreign that happened to someone else, very long ago. 

But no.

That is a lie. 

It was not a nightmare, and it did not happen to someone else.

Henry's hand wanders down James's belly, caressing him as he's done a thousand times in the past: James tenses at once, and when the hand cups his crotch playfully he flinches away from this touch. No, no, he cannot bear to have Henry undressing him, looking at him, _seeing_ him as he is now, sickly and frail and so unlike how he once was.

"What?" Henry asks, sounding confused and also a little hurt.

"I'm afraid I am not strong enough for that just yet," James says, lying without effort. 

He is lucky they aren't facing each other. He'd rather die than seeing the look on Henry's face just now. But Dundy moves his hand away at once.

"Ah, forgive me. I was not thinking straight. Old habits die hard, they say." He presses another kiss to James's neck. "We can wait until you feel better," he adds. "We have all the time in the world now."

They do, don't they? That is the gift the whaling ship brought along: time to make all the wrongs right. And yet James isn't sure all the time in the world will ever be enough for him to overlook how undesirable he knows he has become. 

  
  
  



	4. A Thorny Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some hard truths are examined over breakfast - and sweet ones, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning that there's an oblique mention to something that can be interpreted as an eating disorder - I meant it as a rather temporary issue and not something deeper or permanent, but some may find it uncomfortable
> 
> I hope you're still enjoying this :)

* * *

"I cannot bear this a moment longer," James declares at the breakfast table, punctuating his words with the fork. "We must set off for London today."

Henry looks up from his plate with a frown. "This is a sudden decision...? The court martial is still a month away. We've scarcely been here a week."

One excruciatingly long week where James has had quite enough of William's overenthusiasm, endless questions about the Arctic he does not want to answer, and general cheerfulness. It's wretched of him, he knows, and frankly unprecedented, but all he craves now is some peace and quiet to recover - a near impossibility in this home that he otherwise does love. The children, so eager, so loving, with Lizzie completing this picture of fabled domesticity otherwise unattainable for him. And Will, very understandably, demands much of James's time during the day, forcing him to be apart from Henry far more than he'd prefer. At least one of them has profited from it: Dundy has been sleeping for hours and already looks as fresh as a rose and recovered from the ghastly voyage home save from his new unnatural thinness - rendered more evident by James's clothes that he still must wear. At least on this account James expected him to agree but perhaps it bothers him less than he let on at first.

"It's William," James says, shaking his head. "Now don't think me a monster. He has always been prone to excitability, and when he gets in one of his states it becomes quite difficult to humour him. And I'm afraid this long separation has made him become a little... possessive of me."

"You needn't say anything." Henry is playing with an egg cup, tapping it with his knife absently: the yolk drips out from the soft-boiled egg onto his bread roll. "I have three younger brothers myself."

That's right, he does. James always forgets how enormous Henry's family truly is. Three brothers and three sisters! How did he ever keep up? James can barely manage with one, even if he loves him to death. 

"What was that like?" James asks, piqued with curiosity. 

"Growing up, you mean?" Henry lets out an amused huff. "As chaotic as you must be imagining."

"Tell me."

"Well, most of them were little more than excitable puppies begging to go up on my shoulders when I left for school. We did not really play together - it was more like herding them along, me and Rose, and see to that they did not cause more trouble than we could fix. I told you about Rose, didn't I?"

"Your favourite sister?"

"Yes, but never tell the others I said that." Henry laughs under his breath. "If you think I was a good second, and I imagine you do because I've never had any complaints from you, Rose would have been threefold the Lieutenant I was. She should have been an officer."

James watches Henry's wistful smile with something close to fascination. It seems, for a moment, that he is somewhere far away, somewhere full of fond memories where James does not belong. It's impossible, he knows, but he wishes he could have seen this: a younger Henry, unconcerned and happy, surrounded by a loving family. Does he know, James wonders, how lucky he is to have them all? He once spent agonising months tracing his birth father's true-born progeny. Fifteen brothers and sisters, and he was never allowed to meet them. Henry's large family is, in a way, what he grew up wishing he had. 

"No wonder you are good at herding men into obeying," James says, to force himself out of this sudden melancholia.

"Hmm. Yes. They were good training." Dundy returns to tapping the egg cup to get more yolk out, still smiling. "You need infinite patience when everyone cries for your attention at the same time."

Try as he might, James can still not imagine this. Perhaps he's being unfair to William. Yes, he ought to be more patient with him, especially after so long an absence, and so close a brush with death. After all, he is happy to be with him too, despite his own joy being unable to rise beyond a 'content' state, apparently.

Henry adds, "They've grown into fine people, the lot of them. Fine fellows and fine ladies. The last time I saw them..." He marks a pause as his tone takes on a more regretful edge. "The last time we were all together under one roof, we had a grand time, we played charades all evening and ate splendidly. That was... That was the first time I remember wishing I never joined the Navy. I should have liked to stay on land, know them better, get into mischief together." Dundy glances up and smirks at James. "Of course, I hadn't met _you_ yet."

James starts at this, unsure if it is meant as an oblique compliment or a veiled reproach. Henry's good mood seems to indicate the latter. Does it mean that James filled a need for mischief, or that joining the Royal Navy was a hardship rendered bearable when they met? Either is a little presumptuous. Still confused, a little flustered, James clears his throat.

"Well, have you written to Canada yet?" he asks. "To tell them you've returned?"

Henry looks troubled enough to stop abusing his egg. "Ah. I'm afraid not," he says. 

"Why not?"

"I did start three letters, they are on the desk in your room. But... I cannot make myself finish them." Henry sets his knife down and crosses his hands over his lap. He does not seem to be weighing his words, but rather to be struggling to articulate them. "Because," he says at last, "if I write to them, to all of them, they'll be expecting me to sail there at once."

"Well, don't you want to see them?"

"Oh, I do. Desperately." Henry meets his gaze then: there's a strange pleading edge in it. "But I am not terribly keen to settle there myself like I know they'd wish. And I do not know that I could refuse." 

James sets his cutlery down as well. He never considered this would be a possibility. It makes sense, of course: all of Henry's family moved there to begin their new lives. No doubt they would want him to join them. Oh, but he mustn't. He cannot. James grips the tablecloth, ill already at the thought of it.

"It's... very cold over there, I hear," Henry adds, in the same hesitant tone. "I never want to be cold again."

"Yes," James says, fighting the shared gloom that these words carry. "Yes, I understand."

Winter is just around the corner in England, but the cold wind feels rather like a summery breeze after three years in the Arctic. Even the trees, leafless and skinny, now seem friendly, full of life; the evergreen, of course, bring a cheer to the landscape. And this is only in the city! The countryside must be enchanting just now. This is tolerable enough, but a harsher winter? No, not so soon again.

"Henry, surely it's too early to think of this? To think of staying somewhere forever? Of settling?"

"Is it?" 

This sounds like a rhetorical question but Henry's dark gaze searches for his, holds it, awaits an answer. James feels a familiar fear in his throat. This time, however, it isn't as paralysing as it once was. He still offers no answer. When he says nothing, Henry wipes his mouth with the napkin, not breaking eye contact with him, and leans forward.

"Have you thought of it yourself, of what to do next?" Dundy insists. "Will you sail again?"

James has the distinct impression of figuratively rushing to close a door he does not want open at all. "Good God, must we talk about this over breakfast?" he says, irritation growing. "Keep on torturing your egg, not me."

To his surprise, Henry answers just in kind, "Last week you complained I did not say enough to your liking. I am speaking now. Or would you rather we talk about something more inconsequential? About your poor brother, perhaps, whose evident love for you you also find wearisome?"

James grips the tablecloth harder. That is not fair. He did obliquely accuse Dundy of not saying enough, but it was not an open invitation to press on with unpleasant subjects. And certainly not with the deadly precision of a surgeon's scalpel - Henry may be quiet and placid in general, but when he does speak up his approach is sharp and to the point. Refusing to shy from this challenge, James clenches his jaw.

"I cannot sail," he says. "Not in the state I'm in."

"You will get better in time. And what then? In a year or two, you will be as good as new."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

"I will never be well enough to hold a sextant, or see in the distance without a spying glass, and I do know that better than you," James answers, his teeth still clenched. Henry frowns. Oh, he's going to ask more questions. And James will have to say, will have to admit how wretched he truly feels. "Regardless," he hurries to add. "If I could... I do not know that I'd go back to sea. Not just now, at least."

The words taste odd in his lips. 

He's always wanted to sail, for as long as he can remember - moved by a desperate desire to resemble the line of sailors of his blood family, he can see that now, but his child self would have been stumped to explain the keenness he felt back then. Would that child be pleased, he wonders, to find that he's become a Captain at last? But at what cost? He's left his good health, his good looks, his good temper in a frozen wasteland, and has now become virtually useless in his own chosen profession.

"Hm," Henry agrees after a moment, sounding calmer. "Neither would I."

"No? Wouldn't you want to become a Captain yourself? You are still reasonably able-bodied. They will make you a Commander after this ordeal, no doubt."

"I thought I wanted this, yes." Dundy shakes his head. He runs a finger over the rim of his teacup, staring down at his own gesture absently. "Do you know that my whole life, all of my life, everything I've ever done, has always been decided for me by others? By my father first, then by the whims of officers and captains. I am so tired, James. Tired of sailing aimlessly around the globe."

"Oh," James says, because he does not know how to respond to that.

That is... one drawback that he never considered about having a family, or a father. Robert did wish for him to go to Cambridge, but it was never more than that, a simple wish. Not an imposition. How hard he toiled to ensure that James would be able to pursue his dreams of sailing, writing left and right, calling on acquaintances... just to have James do what he desired. Robert did not have to do that. He did not have to do any of it, starting with taking James in when he was an infant. James wished for a _real_ family for so long, but he never considered that it would not necessarily be a pleasant experience or that it came with obligations of its own. He turned a wilful blind eye to the loving one that was already there. And now he shies away from the one brother who's ever been faithful to him? Oh, no, he owes William much more than impatience.

And is he accounted for in those captains whose whims decided Henry's fate? He was not particularly tyrannical as a captain, was he? Dundy never complained. Perhaps he does not mean it only in the literal sense, and in that case... James has no leg to stand on here. He did beg him to join the expedition to find the Northwestern Passage. He begged and begged, and Henry gave in and followed him. If they had died... if they had died, like they almost did, this would have been James's doing, in his careless toying with Henry's passion for him. 

He feels a little dizzy, all of a sudden. 

He hasn't been as pleasant as he could have been, has he. Not just with Dundy, but with many others. Looking inwards, ever inwards, and rarely noticing others in his unstoppable trudge towards... towards what exactly? Glory? Fame? Riches? Vanity, rather. Always vanity.

In trying to digest these revelations, he lets his gaze wander around the breakfast table. And then he notices it: Henry has barely eaten at all. Come to think about it, he's never known Dundy to pick at his food. Yet the egg still rests on its cup, uneaten, and the bread has only been munched around the edges. The plate sits nearly untouched. The mess he made with the yolk and the half-drunk cup of tea are the only indications he's occupied his place this morning. James frowns, an uncertain, disquieting anguish taking hold inside of him.

"And you?" Henry says, before James has a chance to voice his sudden concern: he is staring at him again, his gaze heavy and intent. "Aren't you tired of wandering all over the world, looking to prove yourself in the eyes of everyone willing to see you?"

His tone is gentle, but there is a hint of accusation in it.

"What?" James hisses. He thought they were past confrontation.

Henry glances around, as if to make sure they are alone. No one from the household breakfasts this late, and the servants seldom bother them until they are finished. He leans closer to James.

"James," he says, still gentle. "Jamie, my dear. Dearest. I do wonder if you know this, if you know that you do not need anyone's love to be a worthy man. Not Sir John's. Not Crozier's. And certainly not mine. My darling James. You already are an extraordinary man who's done extraordinary things."

A slap across the face would have stunned James less. He stares at Henry, unable to speak, while his heart starts banging up a storm in his chest. If he had to name what he feels just now, anger comes to mind: anger that Henry thinks he needed to be told this, anger that Henry actually did tell him, and anger that Henry might be, in fact, right. 

But it isn't anger that brings this sting of tears to his eyes. 

It's the realisation that Henry knows him _too well_ , that he know _too much_ , and instead of sending him into a panic as it did in the past, it fills him with something warm and calming, very sweet, and yet larger than any force he's ever experienced in his long years at sea, not gales, typhoons, or monsoons, not sandstorms, snowstorms or blizzards. It rather reminds him of the hidden freshwater spring in Bahrain: a secret oasis, relentless in its song, a shelter from the blazing sun. How is a man to count his blessings when he is so undeserving of them?

"Harry," he says, his voice raspy with a reverent edge.

Henry is close enough to reach for James's hand over the table: he takes it in his and holds it tight, tight in his firm grip. His thumb strokes over his knuckles, so very softly.

"What are you running from, James? Won't you ever stop running?"

"I don't know," he says, some vexation lingering in his tone, at himself rather than at Dundy. _"Can_ I stop running?"

"I do think you can."

"But all the lies…" James objects, his throat tight.

"Surely you've now risen past the lies?"

"Not all of them. I was born a lie. I've done little else but lying since. And there is still _this_ lie." His voice is unsteady, but he squeezes Henry's hand for emphasis. "One lie I would like to keep. You say I do not need it, but I would be lost if I ever found myself without your love."

"That is something you needn't worry about," Henry says, a luminous grin brightening his wearied face. "You've always had it. You always will."

"And mine too. You have all of my love, Henry. Am I too late in saying this? Please do not say I'm too late. I wish I said it years ago. I wish I said I loved you when everything was easier."

"You are late," Henry says with a bit of tease dancing in his tone. "Very late. Abominably late. But not _too_ late."

Although a little chagrined with this answer, James cannot help smiling back. "Come here," he says. "I want to kiss you."

Henry glances around the dining room again. "Here?" he says, sounding doubtful.

"Well, there's always the bedroom," James quips.

He regrets it the moment he says it. He is still not willing to undress in front of Henry, the new scars too hideous and his body too wasted, but if they make it back to the bedroom it will become either an inevitability or another long conversation that James would rather not have. Dundy stands up at once, however, and James follows him with a growing sense of dread. 

William had an errand to run this morning, the children are having their lessons, and Elizabeth is usually in her cabinet writing letters at this time of the day, leaving the house fairly deserted save for the servants. They make quite the pair: Henry, limping along, and James walking behind him with infuriating slowness. One of the maids is cleaning the parlour and curtsies briefly as they walk by: James flashes her his most affable grin, still enjoying the mischievous side of being so surreptitious. 

Once in the bedroom, Henry locks the door behind himself.

"How about this kiss, then?" he whispers with a smirk, and steps closer to James.

James lets out a shaky breath. "Just one," he says, and grabs Dundy's face with both hands to plant a kiss to his lips.

But it's never just one kiss, is it? James kisses him once, twice, and forgets about any reservations he had initially. He savours Henry's mouth, pliant and wet under his lips, as if he never tasted it before. How long has it been since they kissed in earnest? The last time was aboard that ghastly ship, was it not? James whimpers into the kiss, disliking the memory of their last time together. Good God, that could have been their last time, if they had not been rescued. He raises some silent thanks that it was not and pulls back from the kiss, a little flustered already. Henry too has regained some colour on his cheeks. He reaches to pull James into his arms, kissing him himself, hands wandering already. But alas, when he strokes him over the trousers, the dread returns full force.

"Wait," James says. "I'd rather not..." Henry stops touching him to listen, which gives him the courage to elaborate. "I'd rather not undress."

"Is this a challenge to make you spill in your trousers? Touch you over your clothes and make you all helpless?" Dundy teases. "Because I think I would manage."

"Ah," James says, interested in spite of himself. 

More eager now, he presses against the hand to show he isn't adverse to the idea. But Henry grows serious.

"You don't want me to undress you? You don't want me to see you, perhaps?"

James nods, both relieved and mortified that he was so easy to read. He glances away, but Dundy still searches for his gaze, and rests his hands on James's shoulders.

"I don't want to alarm you," he says. "But I was there when the surgeon stitched you up on the whaling ship, and then when your bandages were changed in the days thereafter. There is nothing that would surprise me under your clothes." He strokes James's neck with just one finger, so very softly. "And there is also nothing that would make me not want you."

This knowledge should mollify him or appease him, but it does not. James grimaces at the thought of his wrecked, bleeding body on display back then. He blinks it away. His reluctance must be evident on his face, because Henry steps away from him with a thoughtful, perhaps concerned, expression on his face. He undoes his cravat (one of James's, in fact, that he's been borrowing all of this week) and then places it on James's hands.

"Blindfold me," he says, and James gasps.

He closes his good hand on the cravat, rather tempted, intrigued, lured by this offer that queerly enough would be a novelty for them. James has always been the one blindfolded or tied in the past, and he stirs at this realisation. He steps closer to Henry, recovering that sense of mischief and delight that he lost when they stepped in the room and he became the object of Dundy's attentions.

"We must be exceedingly quiet," he reminds him, in a whisper.

"Blindfold me _and_ gag me?" Henry raises one eyebrow. "That's a bit excessive for today, don't you think?"

"I recall you doing far worse to me on occasion. Skewered like a piglet, I think you called it."

Dundy laughs. "That was on account of your squealing," he says, and James presses a kiss to his lips to silence him.

He does blindfold him, more because he can than because he truly does not want Henry to see him. It doesn't matter, he tells himself, as he lies him down on the still unmade bed and climbs on top of him. It doesn't matter. Henry's hands stroke the back of his thighs firmly, sliding upwards until he's squeezing James's arse the way he knows he likes - betraying how well he has memorised his body, so well that he doesn't truly need to see. Flustered, James undoes his own cravat to breathe more easily, hesitates, and finally undoes the buttons of his shirt. 

He will remove the blindfold eventually, he will, to see the look in Henry's eyes when he takes his pleasure, but for now... For now, James will do his best to tease him and torment him as wickedly as he can - and show him, remind him with his tongue of the uncontainable depth of what he feels for him.


	5. A Very Fine Speech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! A lot of fluff, oh nooo. 
> 
> Same warnings as the chapter before. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

* * *

Mrs. Wright seems genuinely happy to see him when she opens the door.

"Oh, Mister Le Vesconte, just in time for tea!" she says cheerfully.

"Am I?" Henry says as he steps inside the flat he shares with James. He removes his hat in the lower landing of the stairs and shoulders off his coat. "I made good time from Devon, that is all."

"Captain Fitzjames was most hopeful you would be on time. He missed you terribly, you know? He will be delighted to see you."

"Now now, I've only been gone two days," Henry says with a dismissive air, but he secretly treasures this information. 

The stairs of the house have never agreed with him, or with James for that matter, but the upper floor flat is so comfortable and so very suited to them, right in the centre of London, that they were both willing to overlook this small nuisance. He minds not to lose his balance by aiding himself with the railing. The foot hardly hurts these days, but he just paid a rather active visit to his uncle in Torquay, followed by an even longer ride home. By the time Henry makes it upstairs, coat in his arms, he has to let out a tired sigh. 

James, slouched on the armchair in the middle of the sitting room, looks brooding and out of sorts when Henry opens the door, but his entire face lights up when he sees him. He is fully dressed to go out - he must have returned from an errand shortly before him.

"Harry!" he cries. 

Henry smiles at him and locks the door behind himself. He tosses his coat in the direction of the coat rack. There is some clutter in their cosy little flat, but after living for so long in reduced quarters being entitled to do as they please with the space is rather liberating. James is responsible for most of the clutter, in any case, with his large collection of eccentric trinkets and curiosities that he has accumulated over the years. Someone not from the Royal Navy might still find the sitting room too bare and austere, but it suits them just right. Henry crosses it in two strides to join him by the sofa. James sits up to meet his kiss, eager. A little needy, even, leaving his arms around him after he pulls back. Henry strokes his cheek.

"I heard from a most reliable source that you missed me?"

"Abominably," James says, and a strange expression crosses his face. "You are not allowed to leave me ever again." After a pause, he adds a belated, "...Le Vesconte," as if to give a more official edge to his request.

Henry smirks. "Is that an order?"

"You know I am still your Captain."

Oh, curse him for saying that. Henry feels his face grow hot. This gentle teasing is as old as The Clio, and yet it always makes him flustered. He's lucky, he supposes, that James did not see fit to remind him of this in bed, or he does not know the extent to which he'd have bent to his wishes. 

"I do not recall signing up to any ship of yours, sir," he says, wavering between teasing of his own and utter seriousness, "but I will strive to do as you order."

James does not look pleased, however. He bites his bottom lip, as he does when he is cross. Puzzled, Henry stays near him until he speaks again, though James's hesitant tone is rather unexpected.

"It would be nice, wouldn't it, Harry? To stay."

"Well. Yes?" he answers, unsure where James is going with this.

He does not elaborate, however, staring up at Henry with a vaguely guilty expression in his gaze. The scar on his poor left eye has thickened with each passing week, leaving only the iris untouched and swimming uncertainly in a sea of broken white. Full of affection for him, he leans down to kiss him again, on his forehead this time. James makes a soft sound of surprise and perhaps of regret when he pulls back. Henry smiles at him.

"I'm afraid our time apart was just as excruciating for me," he tells him. "What a tedious visit. My cousins have impressed upon me how peculiar it is to be rooming with an old mate in a little flat in London, even if said mate is a Captain, instead of procuring myself suitable quarters for my new naval rank."

"What did you say?"

"Largely nothing. A great deal of non-committal 'Hmm' and 'Yes, I see', as you can imagine." He runs a hand on James's hair - it has grown long enough for either a haircut or a tail. Henry rather hopes it's the latter: it would remind him of when they first met. James's hair is soft and silky between his fingers, with none of the dull coarseness it had when they returned. Henry scratches his scalp gently. "They do not know my James and how happy he makes me," he adds.

"Do I really?" James asks, his voice strangled, his gaze a little lost.

"Of course you do."

James leans forward to slide his arms around Henry's waist, resting his face on his belly. Still puzzled, Henry holds him tighter and strokes his hair for a moment, then steps back to look at him. James seems as ill-disposed as when he first came in.

"What's the matter, hm?"

"I was at the Admiralty today," James says.

"Ah."

That explains his clothing. It's telling, however, that he did not wear his uniform, and went dressed as a gentleman. Come to think of it, Henry does not think he's had any tailoring requested for the captain garb he is now entitled to.

In any case, an errand at the Admiralty these days cannot have been pleasant. The court martial was a ghastly farce, with the jury so eager to make a scapegoat out of Crozier that even Henry ended up speaking for him. It was utterly unfair, outrageous. Sir James Ross's passionate defence of his friend had little sway on the other men presiding the hearing. But one by one, what little officers remained rallied behind Crozier along with the rest of the crew, so that condemning him would have been a gross injustice, too great a scandal given the mostly favourable public opinion. The trial ended with no culprits for the hubris and for the loss of men. The harshness of Nature was to blame - the Beast brushed aside as a polar bear at James's insistence. His puzzling stubbornness about this matter turned out to be a welcome digression from the thornier gaps in their accounts, notably from Crozier's illness that no one named except in the vaguest of terms.

In the aftermath of the trial, James was promoted to Captain, Little and Henry to Commanders, but the matter of Jopson would be discussed at a later date on account of the irregular manner in which he was made a Lieutenant. The logbooks that Bridgens kept were taken to be examined by the Geographical Society of London. And since the Passage was not breached, let alone discovered, there was no prize money to be had from the Admiralty. James, Henry and Weekes were awarded medals for bravery on account of that desperate march to the whaling ship - a show of goodwill, Henry supposes, after their thoroughly unpleasant treatment. He felt no particular affection for the little trinket when he received it. He has never taken it out of its velvety box. 

And that was all. 

Sir John's wretched expedition, forgotten, buried in the frenzy of London newspapers that printed a scandal a week. Ships were lost at sea every year. Men returned crippled from war by the dozens. It was not interesting. 

_They_ were not interesting.

He waits for James to elaborate, but he seems to have regressed into his offended silence once more. Well, he'll talk. If there is any certainty on this Earth is that James will talk - long and excessively. Henry makes his way to the dining table out of curiosity. Tea has been served, yes, and for two. A pleasant smell comes out of the steamy teapot. But in the central plate, the pastries look quite odd, foreign. Henry gasps when he understands.

These are pastries from the Levant, the kind they used to eat when they were guests in the Palaces of Bahrain. Oh, he recognises them all, these round ones used to be covered in honey, the square ones had a creamy texture - and the dates! The citrussey fruits!

"Do you like it?" James asks, behind him. He sounds a little fretful.

Henry smiles uneasily. He knows what James is doing. He's been trying to do it since they moved to London, luring Henry to eat with dishes he knows are, or were, pleasing to him. He usually likes the gesture more than the food: ever since they returned, after so many weeks of hardship, everything has become dull, tasteless. A chore. Henry does not know what to make of it. But James has the right idea, he thinks. Maybe in time he will grow to enjoy again what he once liked. Yet this is still extravagant to the extreme, even for James.

Instead of answering, he asks, "How on Earth did you procure these in London?"

"I found a certain grocer," James says, now moving to stand next to him, in the secretive tone that is so very him.

Henry just has to chuckle. "Of course you did." 

"Do you like it?" James insists.

"Yes, of course. It's a wonderful surprise." He gestures towards the other seat at the table. "Come sit with me," he tells him.

He pours him a generous cup and then one for himself while James fills each of their plates with the sweets, making a little mountain in them. Oh, yes, Henry remembers: the honeyed ones used to leave his fingers sticky. He smiles at the memory, but when he bites into it the taste is just as bland as he feared. He smiles at James while he chews, nevertheless, not wanting to disappoint him. The grin he flashes him in return makes it all worthwhile.

"What about the Admiralty, then?" Henry asks, regretting that his need for a distraction at the table must clash with James's improved mood.

James sighs. "I was summoned there this morning, as it happens. The Geographical Society has finished examining our logbooks."

"Oh?"

"Yes, they... They're quite good, Henry."

"Well, I did fill them," he says more humorously than in earnest.

"The word they used was 'exceptional', I believe. 'Invaluable', even."

Henry is surprised enough to try another bite. "That good, huh?" he says, his mouth full.

"Yes, apparently. I believe I am quoting them verbatim when I tell you that those carefully recorded observations of yours are the most extensive corpus of the Arctic region over so long a time. They are so pleased that they have decided to award us a prize. A _substantial_ prize."

He stops chewing, because James's eyes have widened in emphasis. "How substantial are we talking about?"

"Tens of thousands of pounds, Dundy. To be divided among the men of Erebus. And I needn't remind you how small a number that is. Or that you and I are the only officers left alive."

"Good God." Henry sets his teacup down more noisily than he intended. That means half of the prize money will be divided between the two of them. "Good God," he repeats. 

His first thought, queerly enough, is that he wishes he knew this before he visited his cousins, so that he could get them off his back more easily, and to impress on them that the godforsaken mission was not a complete waste of his time. But that is rather inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things. Tens of thousands of pounds! He blinks. That is more than enough money to never sail again if he so wished, to settle, to buy land - to do anything, really.

"Yes," James says, after a moment of silence. "We are... we are to become very rich, you and I."

"This is what you've always wanted, is it not? What you've always striven for."

"It is. It was, yes."

"Why the long face, then?"

He sees James's hand grip the tablecloth harder, like he does when he is upset.

"Did you not hear?" he says, a little impatiently. "The prize is to be awarded to Erebus. Not Terror. All those men will be left without a penny! Good men. Valuable men. Hartnell. Peglar. Jopson. Francis."

"Hm," Henry acknowledges, perhaps a little dryly.

It isn't a surprise, seeing how the court martial went. In fact, it strikes him as rather deliberate, even if the only surviving logbooks did indeed belong to Erebus. Crozier is not a pleasant man to be around, but he does not deserve to have injustice after injustice piled upon him like this.

"I argued," James says, and makes a dejected gesture with his hand. "I argued and protested and tried to appeal it. All in vain. The money is to be ours, ours only, and that is quite the end of it."

Yes, he would argue - James would argue to hell and back, wouldn't he. Even if it meant being left penniless in the end. There's always been a good heart underneath all those layers of carefully constructed bravado and ambition. Henry takes another sip of tea. He reaches for the hand that is still gripping the tablecloth, and covers it with his own. James unclenches his fist and looks up at him with some surprise. 

"It was kind of you to argue," Henry tells him. "It speaks of your good nature."

"Damned my good nature! I wish there was more I could do."

"Well." Henry sets his teacup down and winks at him. "Once the money is ours, no one could stop you from doing as you please with your newfound fortune, could they. You could distribute some or all of your share amongst the Terrors, if you so wished. Never mind the Admiralty."

James looks at him as if Henry just offered him the moon. A smile breaks on his lips, small and hesitant at first, but it spreads to the rest of his face, and to his eyes, filling them with mirth. He squeezes his hand, too.

"Henry," he says. "You devious fiend. My darling old boy, I think you're absolutely right. No one could stop me at all."

"Mm-hm."

"Francis will be too proud to accept, of course. But the other men? Those honest, decent men. I'll be sure to give them what they're due."

Henry pulls back his hand to grab one of the round little pastries. The honey is very sweet. Delicious, in fact. When he looks down at this plate, he sees he's already eaten half of it without noticing - and it wasn't quite the ordeal he expected.

"Mind that you do keep some money for you," he reminds him. "You wouldn't want to end up a newly minted but impoverished Captain."

"Oh, no. I do have some money of my own saved up. William, he... He was kind enough to set a sum for me when we returned from the Far East. It was meant to be money for me to get settled. Get married, and all that."

"Hm. I was given some money to that end as well."

Back then, it struck him as rather unfair to have his father be so generous with him only for being the eldest - Henry already knew then that he was unlikely to ever marry. His younger brothers, Pip especially, would need this sum far more than he would. But he took it, nevertheless, thinking rather of Charlotte and Anne: if they did not marry or were widowed, he could provide for them when they aged. For Rose he did not worry. She chose a sensible man for a husband, and as far as Henry knew she already had a small fortune of her own from all their farming. 

He must write to them soon to tell them the news of this new fortune - they will be thrilled for him, and perhaps expect his visit to Canada a little less keenly. The long winter has given Henry a brief respite, in any case. When he looks up at James, he finds that he has peeled and bitten into one of the round, lemony fruits, and is staring at him rather anxiously.

"What now?" Henry asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you remember," James says, his voice strangled, "what you said to me in Bahrain?"

Henry stares down at the half-eaten fruit, very aware of the conversation James is likely referring to. After so long the memory still makes him want to flinch in pain - a dull ache, so far removed from his current reality that it rather feels like a bitter dream. 

"I said many things in Bahrain," he says, keeping it vague. He averts his gaze.

"Up on the ruined fort. I was eating a fruit very much like this one."

Henry stays silent.

James insists, "You don't remember?"

"I remember. What about it?"

"Oh, bugger it all, I'm doing a rather poor job at this, aren't I?" James shakes his head. "I had it all planned, if you can believe it, a speech, everything. It took me weeks to find a grocer from the Near East, let alone one willing to cook. And I hoped you'd be back in time for tea today, because if you weren't, what would I do with all this? Mrs. Wright had quite enough of my fussing. And then this Admiralty business took most of my day today, and I'm afraid I am not in the best of moods just now. Their news will rather dilute what I mean to say, but I assure you the two matters are entirely unrelated. If I were as poor as I was yesterday, I would still speak up today, although some matters are made evidently easier now. But of all days, they had to pick today! I would not be so affected if it was not clear to me that their personal prejudices are what drove them to snub the Terrors in such a glaring manner. I cannot stand injustice, and I cannot help thinking, if they knew, if only they knew what I truly am, and some of them must know it by now, would they be so keen to reward me? I think not. Sir John Barrow is a member, you know. Never have I been more disappointed in someone I was fond of. And in accepting their reward, am I not condoning their despicable behaviour?"

"James, James." Quick to recognise the rambly path James is threading on, Henry raises a helpless hand to put a stop to this deluge of words. "For the love of God, what are you possibly talking about?"

James sighs. "You said... Back then, you said if you had to marry someone, you'd marry me. I wanted to ask you whether your feelings on the matter are still the same. I am fully aware that much has happened since, and that at times we've not been on the best of terms, you and I. But I still would like to know."

Henry frowns, and refuses to let his battered heart grow rowdy with the question. How did he find the courage to say that to James back then? He was younger, foolish. Helplessly in love - an enormous, uncontrollable feeling that knocked the breath out of him - and aching to hear he was loved back. He isn't sure much has changed since. 

Yet he says, "All of that conversation was hypothetical, was it not? You were extolling your virtues as a future husband to your imaginary wife in South America. You told me some nonsense about Castor and Pollux immediately after, as you may well remember."

"Not one of my finer moments, indeed." James makes an exasperated sound. "But I am still thinking of doing that. Going to Brazil, that is, not marrying some woman. And before you say anything, I am not running, Henry. Or at least, I am not running without purpose any longer. I want to find that part of myself that I've been forced to keep hidden all of my life. My old nurse still lives. I must have distant relatives there, or pleasant society at the very least, lands to farm, lands to explore. Won't you join me? It's warm over there, warmer than Canada or England will ever be. Please say you'll come with me. Stay with me. Marry me."

Henry sucks in a deep breath when he understands at last where James was heading with the foreign pastries and his disjointed comments. It's so very sweet, if a little unorthodox, and he does not know whether to take James seriously or to start laughing. The second alternative is a clear winner, and he lets out a shaky laugh. 

"Oh dear," he says. "Is this the part where I'm to play the blushing bride?"

"I will be the bride, if you prefer it so. I know _I_ would." James reaches for both his hands over the table and holds them tight. "But please. Stay with me."

He _is_ serious. For one brief moment Henry's mind feels eerily silent, devoid of thoughts. If only it were as easy as falling into a rapture and answering an enthusiastic yes. But a fear nearly as old as their acquaintance gnaws at him viciously, enough to let Henry keep his eyes wide open, and his heart on guard. 

"You do remember my objections to you back then, I suppose?" James shakes his head no, but he purses his lips enough to let Henry suspect he remembers perfectly well. "You'll grow bored of me, James. Maybe not tomorrow, or in a month, but in a few years surely you will. I am... I am not... I think we both know I will never be enough to sate you."

"Don't say that, I beg you. It has been nearly seven years now. And I am still sitting here with you. Begging you."

Seven years! That's right, they met sometime in March 1842, and now that Twelfth Night has passed 1849 has begun in earnest. Henry considers this, a little dazzled. It has been a very long time. But he shakes his head.

"Come now," he says, impatient. "Eight months ago I was not enough for you. I don't know that I've ever been."

"But you have. You always have. It's no fault of yours I was too blind to acknowledge it. Henry, my love. I will get down on my knees if I have to."

"Don't you start with your melodrama," Henry protests, and once he says it he realises there is little else he could have said to egg him on.

Indeed, James lets go of his hands and is up on his feet in an instant. Before Henry can stop him, he's thrown himself to his knees, so theatrically that he still doesn't know whether to humour him.

"Ah, get up, get up," he tells him, feeling his face grow hot in spite of himself.

"I will not." He rests a firm hand on Henry's thigh. "I could not ask for a better man. You've stayed with me all these years, so loyal, so steadfast - I do not know that I deserve your devotion, but I hope ardently to match it with my own. Your presence alone, your smile, your arms would soothe my worst fears, make it all right, make it all easier. And they've done so, all the times when hope was lost. Never mind the prize money: you are the greatest treasure I could have ever found. I will devote myself to making you happy, happier yet, as happy as we were aboard our old Clio. You've been my second all these years, Harry. Please let me make you my first as well."

Henry laughs again, but not with disbelief or uneasiness. How is he so easily charmed by him like this? He cups James's face with his hand, stroking his cheek gently.

"Stand up, you devil," he tells him. "That was a very fine speech. And you know I can never say no to you."

James looks a little crestfallen, and does not stand. "But you _can_ say no to me. You know that, don't you? I don't want to be yet another to decide your fate without taking your wishes into account, like your father or your other captains. I would feel miserable if I did."

It takes him a moment to parse what James is referring to - Henry did say that, didn't he? In the early days of their return, when most of his thoughts and fears were too raw, too easily confessed. It's rather endearing that James took it to heart, even if Henry did not mean it as a slight against him. He rests a hand on the top of James's head.

"I don't mind it if it's you," he tells him, playing with his hair. "I will follow you to South America, or anywhere, not because you demand it but because I want to. Because I want _you._ "

Only then does James smile at him: one of those rare, full-toothed grins that Henry would do anything for. 

"On second thought," he adds, "don't stand. I like you like this."

"Do you now?"

James lowers himself more and presses his nose to the inside of Henry's thighs. He is being playful, but Henry can't help sucking in a shaky breath, enthralled with the sight - and with the warmth of the mouth he can feel against his trousers. James places a light kiss to his crotch, right between his legs, and Henry feels himself stirring a little.

"Don't start something you don't mean to finish," he warns him.

"Who says I will not finish?"

And James, ever contrarian, stands now, but only to sit on Henry's thighs. He moves his legs to have him be as comfortable as possible, but a lapful of James is never a placid experience: he knows just now to press and how to squirm to keep him on the edge. Henry grabs him by the hips to still him for just a moment, enough to steal a kiss. It shocks him to find James tastes like the lemony fruit he was eating earlier - just like he tasted years ago. He gasps into the kiss, moans rather, and tries to slide his tongue into James's mouth, but the infuriating man pulls back with a laugh. 

"Easy now," he says against Henry's lips. "Let me ring for Mrs. Wright to clear the table."

"Don't," Henry pleads, and manages to peck at his lips again. "I'm not quite finished here."

"She is very capable of coming in uninvited, as you well know."

"I locked the door on my way in. Don't ring for her, Jamie. Let me kiss you just a little longer." He lets out a shaky sigh, unsure how to phrase this. "That fruit you were eating. It feels I've been chasing that taste for years."

James tilts his head. "What taste?"

Henry kisses him some more to get a better idea how to answer that question, more forceful now even though James's mouth is pliant and eager against his. This is a taste he could eat or drink for days and never tire, and never find it bland. If he were as inclined to write (passably bad) poetry as James is, he might just say it's the taste of the sun, of happiness, of infinite possibilities laying before them with no tangible in sight. But Henry isn't a poet. He pulls back, mesmerised by how James's cheeks have coloured pink with the new ardour.

"Of you, I think," Henry says simply, and loses himself in James's lips.

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've run out of steam to write all that I would have wanted to say in an epilogue, but please imagine them in colonial Brazil, exploring Iguaçu and then the Pantanal and settling with 3 capybaras, many toucans, 4 children of uncertain parentage, and a jaguar that may or may not be a pet :)


End file.
